LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



©l^p.'PE §apiri%\i "^n-S-O-f 
Shelf -lK125l- 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Copyright, 1885, 

by 

C. W. Macfarlane. 



Canons of Criticism. 

An Introduction to 

The Development 

of 

English Poetry. 



V"^ 



By 

C. WrMacfarlane. 



f APR 28 188?/ 






% 



n 



,iY);i3 



Contents. 



PAGE. 



Poetry 7 

Poet versus Philosopher 29 

Repose 43 

Healthfidness 59 

Humor 71 

Resume 87 



Preface. 

SOME years ago we attempted to sketch 
"The Development of English Poetry," 
but at the very outset found ourselves 
confronted with this formidable difficulty, that 
there is no generally accepted definition of 
Poetry. While there is undoubtedly some 
agreement as to the merit of special lines, 
and many attempts to define Poetry or to 
formulate a criterion by which all lines might 
be safely judged, yet are these conflicting in 
the extreme, while none seem willing to give 
a reason for the faith that is in them. Until 
this is done, until some general agreement has 
been established among men in regard to a 
criterion which shall say ; this is of low, and 
this of high degree, no discussion of "The 



Development of English Poetry " can be with 
any great profit. 

Recognizing this, we have endeavored to 
find some strand of agreement running through 
the mass of conflicting opinion. Where one 
has seemed arrayed against another, we have 
striven, not so much to develop a new and 
different truth, as to harmonize their contra- 
diction, holding it as highly probable that they 
were but different phases of the same truth. 

Out of the original discussion there have 
grown definitions of many of the terms in 
current use in criticism, and yet about which 
much difference of opinion exists. Lastly we 
were ^constrained to define Humor, and this 
widening of the discussion has compelled the 
seemingly pretentious title '' Canons of Criti- 
cism ;" and yet that the principles here enun- 
ciated have a wider application than to Poetry, 
he who runs may read. 

That the time has come when, if Critical 
Literature is to make further advance, there 
must be some general agreement as to the 
meaning of the terms employed, there can be 
no question, though how successful we have 



5 

been in our attempts to give definition to some 
of these terms others must judge. This, at 
least, we may say : " It is an honest Ghost." 



C. W. M. 



No. 4728 Green Street, 
Germantown, 

Philadelphia. 




Poetry.' 



CRITICAL literature has of late been much 
perturbed by the question, whether in 
the brilliant ornateness of Shelley, or 
in the serene contemplation of Wordsworth, 
is found the greater poetic genius. Nor can 
the perturbation be confined within the girth 
of the original question; for, take what side 
you will, the mere assertion that certain lines 
are superior in poetic merit to certain others 
commits you to the proposition, that some 
measure, some test of poetic excellence, is 
possible. 

And so, no longer contented with vague 
generalities, men seek for such a criterion, as 
will enable them to determine for any and all 



examples of poetic endeavor, the order of their 
going. 

It is not possible within the limits of these 
pages to review all previous definitions ; but 
if we can find that among them there are two 
or more under one or the other of which all 
others may be included, we can expedite our 
discussion by confining ourselves to these, and 
so, building upon the foundation of the apostles 
and prophets of afore-determined truth, may 
be led to a definition of at least as great exact- 
ness and generality as any yet proposed. 

Conspicuous among recent efforts in this 
direction is that of Mr. Matthew Arnold, who 
in the preface to his " Selections from Words- 
worth's Poems" writes: 

*' It is important that we hold fast to this: 
that poetry is at bottom a criticism of life ; 
that the greatness of the poet lies in his beau- 
tiful and powerful application of ideas to life, 
to the question how to live." 

In the " Contemporary Review," Decem- 
ber, 1 88 1, Mr. Alfred Austin combats this, and 
offers in its stead the. following : ** Poetry is a 
transfiguration of life ; in other words, an 



imaginative representation in verse or rhythm, 
of whatever men perceive, feel, think, or do." 
" The relative greatness of a poet depends upon 
the amount of life he has transfigured ; in other 
words, upon how much of whatever men per- 
ceive, feel, think or do, he has in verse or 
rhythm represented imaginatively." 

What, in simple, are we to understand 
from these criteria ? Mr. Austin interprets 
Mr. Arnold as declaring that it is in the criti- 
cism or philosophy of life, in the thought con- 
tained in any lines, that we must find the 
measure of the poet's work and genius, while 
his own may be fairly interpreted as declaring, 
that the poet evidences his genius in a special 
mode of representing the thought, or by his 
*' transfiguration " of the same. But what of 
this " transfiguration," for before passing judg- 
ment upon a statement, we must needs have 
some clear idea as to the meaning of the terms 
employed. 

Among the many examples quoted in the 
course of Mr. Austin's argument is the follow- 
ing from Wordsworth's " Simon Lee the Old 
Huntsman : " 



lO 



" And he is lean and he is sick ; 

His body dwindled and awry 
Rests upon ankles swollen and thick : 

His legs are thin and dry. 
One prop he has and only one, 

His wife, an aged woman, 
Lives with him near the waterfall, 

Upon the village common," etc. 

** Need I hesitate to say, " writes Mr. 
Austin, and we must perforce agree with him, 
" that, though written by Wordsworth, this 
is not poetry?" Farther on he writes: — 
" If any one wants to see how the same writer 
can Hft narrative from the ground and endue 
it with the ethereal buoyancy of poetry, let him 
turn to 'The Leech-Gatherer.' 

" Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven, 
I saw a man before me unawares ; 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hair. 
Himself he pressed, his body, limbs and face, 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 
And still as I drew near with gentle pace 
upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 
And viovcth all together, if it move at all'' 



II 



"The peom is of some length," continues 
Mr. Austin, ** and therefore cannot be quoted 
in its integrity. But anybody can perceive at 
once, that the narrative is conducted at a dif- 
ferent elevation from that of ' Simon Lee.' We 
are listening on the high mountain and the old 
man is transfiguredy Now while all this is 
doubtless true, yet have we somewhat against 
the vague indefiniteness of the term — transfig- 
ured — since, like charity, it may cover a mul- 
titude of sins. 

We would further urge, that the criterion 
which is the outcome of this, not only contains 
" nothing novel, nothing strange," which were 
an indifferent fault, but what is more serious, 
it falls short, both in generality and exactness, 
of a criterion offered some three centuries ago. 
For as Sir Philip Sidney has written in his 
" Defense of Poesy : " — " It is not rhyming or 
versing that maketh a poet, but it is the 
feigning of iwtable images of virtues, vices, or 
what else, with that delightful teaching which 
must be the right describing note to know 
a poet by * * * * he coupleth the 
general notion with the particular example." 



12 



That in this we have a criterion of greater 
exactness and generality than that offered by 
Mr. Austin, may be readily shown. 

First notice that it holds, and we think 
rightly, that metrical structure is not an essen- 
tial or necessary condition of Poetry. In its 
early days, ere Poetry and Music had become 
differentiated from each other, or when all 
Poetry was recited or sung, the bond between 
them was much closer than it is now, when a 
Wordsworth enjoins you— Read my lines rhyth- 
mically if you can, but, at all events, read them 
so as to get the sense. Again, if, as Mr. Austin 
states, we can have rhythmical Prose and un- 
rhythmical Poetry, rhythm can neither be pecu- 
liar nor essential to Poetry. Or while the Poet 
does still avail himself of this as an additional 
source of pleasure, yet may he evidence great 
genius as a Poet, though his rhythm be never 
so faulty. 

Notice, too, that Sidney gives definition 
to Mr. Austin's vague term — *' transfigura- 
tion," — in that he takes cognizance of its 
■ cause, the " feigning of notable images." 
Turn to the lines from " The Leech-Gatherer," 



13 



in which the presence of this so-styled "trans- 
figuration " is most manifest, and you certainly 
find present figures of great credit, while the 
lines from " Simon Lee " lack all creditable 
figure. So throughout all the examples which 
Mr. Austin marshals in defense of his cri- 
terion, wherever we have " transfiguration " we 
find "notable images" or figiires, while in 
those lines which fail of any " transfiguration " 
figures are either entirely absent, or, when 
present, are of but little merit. 

But though it be shown that the " trans- 
figuration " of Mr. Austin is the " feigning of 
notable images " ox figures of Sir Philip Sidney, 
yet does the question remain whether, after all, 
this " transfiguration," this " feigning of notable 
images " or figures, is the essential and peculiar 
element of Poetry, since at the hands of a most 
able critic, Mr. Matthew Arnold, we have the 
statement that " Poetry is at bottom a criticism 
of life." Of this more again, sufficient for the 
present is the fact, which the reader can verify 
for himself, that under one or the other of the 
above all attempts to formulate a criterion may 
be included ; or, while men may and do differ 



14 

as to which of these is the true measure of 
poetic merit, they are yet substantially agreed 
that in one or the other, in the character of the 
figure, or in the character of the thought, the 
essential and peculiar element of Poetry must 
be found. 

In favor of the latter assumption it might 
be urged, and as even the advocate of figure 
must admit, that thought is essential, since 
there can be no figure save as it expresses 
some thought. Further, that thought is the 
true measure of poetic excellence seems evi- 
denced by the fact that the highest Poetry is 
ever the most thoughtful. On the other hand, 
it might be urged against this, that the pleasure 
due to the beauty, pathos, sublimity, etc., of 
the scene, conception, or thought represented, 
is not peculiar to Poetry, but is alike common 
to nature, philosophy, etc. ; while in the highest 
Poetry we have not only the greatest thought, 
h^jX figures of the greatest merit as well. So, 
too, when we turn to the opinions that obtain 
in regard to particular examples, as the lines 
already quoted from " Simon Lee," while there 
are those who, with Mr. Austin, will declare 



15 

of this that it is barren of all poetic merit, there 
are others who will regard it as within the limits 
of Poetry. 

What shall we say, then, — that no consen- 
sus exists, and hence that no definition is pos- 
sible ? Not at all. For while men have failed 
to agree in their attempts to define Poetry; 
failed to agree whether such protozoa of litera- 
ture as the lines from " Simon Lee " shall be 
included under the head of Poetry or of Prose, 
— they do not fail to agree that these lines are 
infinitely inferior in poetic merit to such lines 
as Mr. Austin has quoted from " The Leech- 
Gatherer." Here, then, in this substantial 
agreement, we must find the basis of any 
satisfactory definition. 

Were the thought expressed in these ex- 
amples essentially different, they would help 
us but little in our present difficulty ; but, for- 
tunately, the thought is much the same in 
both — a superannuated old man from the 
lower walks of life — and yet despite this fact, 
that the tlioiigJit is the same, the poetic merit 
of the lines varies most widely. Surely, much 
may be seen in this. 



i6 



But that the above may be perfectly clear 
let us take another pair of examples. 

The scholarly Horatio salutes the break- 
ing day : 

" But look the morn in russet mantle clad 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill," 

That this is Poetry all will agree, and yet 
how it pales before those marvellous lines from 
the 33d Sonnet: 

" Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter ih.Q mountain-top with sovereign eye.'' 

That in both of these we have the same 
scene, conception, or thought, — morn, — is 
manifest, the figure alone changing with the 
ascent from the lowest to the highest tones of 
the poetical gamut. In view of this, may we 
not conclude that the measure of poetic excel- 
lence must be found, not in the character of the 
scene, conception, or thought represented, but 
in the terms of the figure by which this thought 
is represented, or that : — Poetry is the expressvig 
of thought by means of figure. 

It does not tell against this that it rele- 



17 



gates some of the protozoa of literature to the 
domain of Prose. Nor does it, as you shall see 
further on, contradict what of truth there is in 
the assertion that the highest Poetry is the 
most thoughtful. For the present, however, let 
us inquire whether or not our definition will 
make rational, or give coherence to our many 
vague notions about Poetry. 

Among all our ideas in regard to Poetry, 
perhaps none is held with greater assurance 
than this, that : — Poetry is, m some way, the 
opposite of Prose. 

We feel that while both express thought 
by means of language, yet is there some an- 
tithesis between them, of which cognizance 
must be taken, in any attempt to define either. 
Argument is hardly necessary to show that 
all figure is a substitution of the concrete for 
the abstract, and if, as Coleridge has main- 
tained, Scientific is a better term than Prose, 
it is then manifest, since science is ever a 
seeking for broader generalizations, that the 
Scientific or Prose method of expressing 
thought, is the substitution of the general or 
abstract, for the particular or concrete. It 



says to a child : " One and two make three," 
and only in the event of his failing to under- 
stand this does it deign to say : " If you had two 
apples, and I should give you two more apples," 
etc., or reversing its method, it then substitutes 
the familiar for the unfamiliar, the particular or 
concrete, for the general or abstract, or it has 
recourse to the method of the Poet, who, as 
Sidney has said, " coupleth the general notion 
with the particular example." Here, then, in 
germ, we have the method of the Poet, his 
grandest efforts being akin to the above. 

If he wishes to convey an idea of the 
whiteness of his mistress' hand, it is a lily 
hand ; or if it is the loveliness of her voice, 
it is liquid music. If, in more ambitious 
mood, he seeks to convey an idea of the rela- 
tion of life to eternity, he says : 

" Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of eternity." 

Adojiais. Shelley. 

or " he coupleth the general notion " — life — 
" with the particular example" — dome of many- 
colored glass, — " feigning notable images," or 



19 

figures. While in contrast with this the Philoso- 
pher writes : '* Life is the continuous adjust- 
ment of internal relations to external relations," 
substituting the general or abstract for the par- 
ticular or concrete. Not only does this make 
clear the difference between Prose and Poetic 
composition, but it will also enable us to distin- 
guish between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, 
a problem which has troubled criticism not a 
little ; Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt and Coleridge 
severally devoting themselves to its solution. 

We have seen, that men in their endea- 
vor to convey the more abstract ideas, are 
constrained to substitute the concrete for the 
abstract, and, as Sidney has noticed, there is 
delightfulness or pleasure peculiar to this 
mode of teaching, — a pleasure which, in a large 
measure, is independent of the character of the 
thought to be conveyed. 

Mercutio, chafing the love-lorn Romeo, 
says : 

" O, then I see Queen Mab has been with you. 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-maker." 



In this the figures, as in the transfigura- 
tion of an empty hazel-nut into a chariot, made 
by the joiner squirrel, etc., are the source of 
exquisite pleasure, and yet the thought is of 
but little importance. Mercutio, indeed, ac- 
knowledges this, saying : 

" True, I talk of dreams, 
Which are the children of an idle brain'' 

And that the above is Fanciful Poetry we need 
hardly urge. 

In Imaginative Poetry, however, the mind 
is no longer idle, but is possessed by a thought 
or feeling, and, seeking utterance, finds it most 
readily in figure. 

" Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! 
You cataracts and hurricanes spout 
Till you have drench 'd our steeples, drown'd the 

cocks ! 
You sulphurous, and thought-executing fires, 
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, 
Singe my white head ! " Lear. 

That, in this, the figures are the creatures of the 
great wrongs that hold the old king's mind in 



thrall, or that they are Imaginative, none will 
question; and I fancy that those who have fol- 
lowed the argument thus far, will begin to 
realize that the definitions — Poetry is at bottom 
a criticism of life and Poetry is a transfigura- 
tion of life — are more akin than at first sight 
appeared. For it is undoubtedly true that the 
most marvellous transfigurations are ever those 
in which the Poet has been seriously concerned 
about the question " how to live." 

Here then we have the real distinction 
between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry. In 
the former, the mind is possessed with a par- 
ticular thought or feeling compelling utterance 
in figure ; while the latter is rather " the play 
of the mind," in which, as in Mercutio's lines, 
figures are created whose only reason for being 
is their own delightfulness ; the child of simple- 
featured utility become '' the world's fresh 
ornament." They are not, then, as Coleridge 
has maintained, the products of different fac- 
ulties, but of one and the same faculty — 
Imagination — acting under different condi- 
tions. Nor are new terms necessary, as Leigh 
Hunt declares, for those we have are most apt. 



22 



But to conclude, since even in the most 
Fanciful Poetry, there is some remnant of 
thought, we can for the present write, and it 
has a familiar look : Poetry is the expressing 
of thought by means of figure, by the substitution 
of the concrete for the abstract, the conceiving, 
mental picturing^ or imagiriing of the tmfamiliar 
in terms of the familiar. 

It may be asked, How is this mental 
picturing of one in terms of the other effected ? 
In reply, we can only say that in all such 
instances though the conceptions brought 
together are essentially different in kind, or are 
at remove from each other, yet is there some 
similarity between them ; and as an outcome 
of our faith in causality, we instinctively merge 
into each other, or mentally picture as one, con- 
ceptions that are similar; not that either is 
entirely lost in the other, but instead there 
results a new conception, in which both have 
part and lot. So when we read in " Winter's 
Tale " of— 

" Daffodils 
" That come before the swallows dare, and take 
The winds of March with beauty." 



23 

we mentally picture the winds of March as a 
burly Ingomar, and daffodils as a fair Parthe- 
nia, by whom the burly fellow is enamored 
and subdued ; or conceptions different in kind, 
or at remove from each other, are brought 
together because of a subtile similarity between 
them. Remembering, then, that the Poet is 
distinguished from other artists by the material 
in which he works, namely, language, we 
might write, and this is the final form of our 
definition : Poetry is the expressing of thought 
by means of figure, by the substitution of the 
concrete for the abstract, or by the bringing 
together or combining of cojiceptions at remove 
because of a similarity betzueen them, thus 
creating a new cojtception. This the creation 
of the Poet ? This the transfiguration of 
Mr. Austin ? 

It will be remembered, that Messrs. 
Arnold and Austin developed a sort of corol- 
lary to their fundamental proposition, and for 
greater convenience in determining the com- 
parative merits of a poet's genius or work, 
let us do likewise, expediting the discussion, 
as before, by comparing examples oi unequal 



24 



merit, in which the same scene or conception 
is treated. Take the Hnes already quoted : 

" But look the morn in russet mantle clad 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill." 

Hojnlei. 

" Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-top with sovereign eye." 

jjd So7inet. 

In both of these morn is transfigured, or 
represented imaginatively, and yet with what 
differing skill. In the first, the idea of pro- 
gression, which is associated with our con- 
ceptions of morn, is readily transposed into 
walking, an action associated with our con- 
ceptions of man ; adding to this the brilliant 
coloring of the dawn, the Poet ushers in the 
morn as a courtier gay, walking o'er the but 
now night-kissed hills. But though in this 
the remove between morn and courtier is con- 
siderable, yet how much greater is it in the 
second example. What a charge is brought 
against the morn ! Its rosy tipping of the hills is 
''flattering the nwiintain-topy Even if the 
poet had stopped at this, the remove and 



25 

poetic merit would have been infinitely 
greater than in the previous example ; but 
notice, that as each under eye is flattered if 
the king but deigns to look at them, so morn 

" Flatters the mountain-top with sovereign eye.'' 

May we not then conclude, that poetic merit 
or genius must, in part, be measured by the 
remove between the conceptions brought to- 
gether in his creations ? 

But what of the other variable in our 
problem, namely, similarity ? For answer let 
us turn to Shakespeare's 2d Sonnet : 

" When forty winters shall besiege thy brow 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, 
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now 
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held." 

In this, as the succeeding points of simi- 
larity between the conceptions, — a face assailed 
by time, and the siege of a city, — are sug- 
gested ; time and the assailants — wrinkles ; and 
the trenches of the besieging party ; the bril- 
liant color of youth; and the gay livery of 
the defending soldiers ; the fusion and trans- 



26 



figuration increases, till it seems almost com- 
plete, or the Poetry varies, not alone with the 
remove, but with the similarity as well. Hence 
we may write : The greatest Poetry is the result 
of maxiutum reiiuve zvith inax'ununi similarity, 
or it is the parabola of thought in whose equa- 
tion we may substitute for x and y, remove and 
similarity. 

But whither does this heresy of greater 
exactness lead us ? It is long since it was 
written, that unity in variety is the essential 
condition of all beauty ; and modern phi- 
losophy, putting this in other terms, has 
written : *' The primitive source of aesthetic 
pleasure is that character in the combination 
which makes it such as to exercise the facul- 
ties affected in the most complete ways, with 
the fewest drawbacks from excessive exer- 
cise ;" or, in the terms of the older dictum, the 
greater the variety the greater the exercise ; 
this carried too far would fatigue the faculties, 
aud as a preventative of this we have unity, 
which enables the mind to grasp the concep- 
tion of form or aught else with less effort ; or 
we have as the general condition — maximum 



27 

exercise with minimum fatigue. Returning to 
our corollary, it will hardly be necessary to 
show that in maximum remove we have maxi- 
mum variety or exercise, and that in maximum 
similarity we have maximum unity or minimum 
fatigue, and hence, that Poetry is one with all 
beauty. 

What shall we say, then ? That this 
reduces Poetical creation to a mere mechan- 
ical operation, capable of being measured in 
terms of foot — pounds ? Mayhap. Yet would 
we hold that the position here taken, if true, 
instead of destroying our belief in the creative 
genius of the Poet, strengthens its hands 
by enabling us to think of him as we do of 
the Philosopher, — as an intellectual develop- 
ment, and not, as Coleridge has put it, as an 
'' inspired idiot ;" for, as we shall take occasion 
to show. Poet and Philosopher evidence their 
genius in intellectual operations that are iden- 
tical. 

Let us not fear that in so doing we shall 
put aside the veil of the " holy of holies," and 
make bare the fact that it contains naught but 
the rod of Aaron and the pot of manna. 



28 



Naught but these ? And was there no mystery 
there ? Yea, verily the mystery of the wor- 
ship of a God not made with hands, eternal 
in the heavens. 




Poet versus Philosopher. 

CARLYLE, in his *' Heroes and Hero- 
Worship," has maintained that if a man 
is great in any one department of h'fe, 
he would, of necessity, be great in any other 
to which he might devote himself 

That there is in this somewhat of truth 
few will question, though among the admirers 
of the Poet or Philosopher there are many 
who would urge, as its " rock of offense," that 
the greatness of the former is evidenced, in 
operations essentially different from those upon 
which depend the greatness of the latter; while 
the devotees of each will cry out in antiphonal 
response, " Great is our god above all gods ! " 

Now, without committing ourselves to 
Carlyle's general proposition, we may yet 



30 

question the exactness of the above objec- 
tion, and would hold, as in the previous 
article, that the genius of Poet and Philoso- 
pher are alike intellectual developments. Nor 
is it meant by this that in some vague and 
indefinite way the creation of the Poet is an 
intellectual operation, and that, in some less 
vague but different way, the work of the 
Philosopher is intellectual ; but that both evi- 
dence their genius in mental processes that 
are identical. 

We have heard so much of late about the 
wonderful child Induction, that many have 
been persuaded his elder should do him rev- 
erence. Indeed, so largely has this notion 
obtained, that the genius of the Philosopher is 
evidenced in his induction, that it has com- 
pelled a protest from one whose " philosophic 
sagacity " few will question. 

In his " Use and Limits of the Imagination 
in Science," page 53, Professor Tyndall says: 
" Thus the vocation of the true experimentalist 
may be defined as the continued exercise of 
spiritual insight, and its incessant correction 
and realization. His experiments constitute a 



31 

body of which his purified iiiUiitions are as it 
were the soul." Or, according to this, the 
genius of the Philosopher is displayed, not in 
the checking of his inferences, not in his In- 
duction, but in the inferences themselves ; in 
his "spiritual insight," his "purified intuitions." 
But writers of this ilk are not apt to content 
themselves with such vague terms, and so we 
find him asking on page i6: " How, then, are 
those hidden things to be revealed ? We are 
gifted with the power of Imagination, and by 
this power we can lighten the darkness which 
surrounds the world of sense. Bounded and 
conditioned by Co-operant Reason, Imagina- 
tion becomes the mightiest instrument of the 
physical discoverer. Newton's passage from 
a falling apple to a falling m^oon was at the 
outset a leap of the hnagination!' 

Here we have a somewhat more definite 
term than " spiritual insight " or " purified in- 
tuitions," and we all realize, in a general way, 
that, in the exercise of this faculty of Imagina- 
tion, we imagine, or mentally picture, some- 
thing with which we are not familiar. But 
let us not anticipate ourselves ; and since it is 



32 

our desire out of its own mouth to convict 
Philosophy, we will again subpoena a not un- 
willing witness. Mr. Spencer, in his " Princi- 
ples of Psychology," Vol. II., page 534, in 
speaking of Imagination, says : '* When con- 
sciousness is habitually occupied with greatly 
involved aggregates of ideas which cohere 
with other such aggregates of ideas that are 
very various and not very strong, there arises 
a possibility of combining them in ways not 
given in experience. Gaining greater freedom 
as it reaches the advanced stages of com- 
plexity and multiformity, thought acquires an 
excursiveness such that with the aid of slight 
suggestions — slight impulses from accidental 
circumstances — its highly composite states 
enter into combinations never before formed ; 
and so there result conceptions wJiicJi we call 
original!' Or Imagination — in the exercise 
of which, according to Mr. Tyndall, the Phi- 
losopher displays his genius — is, according to 
Mr. Spencer, a combining of conceptions, thus 
creating a so-called original conception, or one 
not given in experience. 

But how is this combination effected ? It 



33 

is hardly a satisfactory answer to say, as above, 
that it is due to *' slight impulses from acci- 
dental causes," and one cannot but wonder 
that a writer usually so exact should content 
himself with this, especially when on page 281 
of the same volume he has written : *' From 
the most complex and most abstract inferences 
down to the most rudimentary intuitions, all 
intelligence proceeds by the establishment of 
relations of likeness and unlikeness." Accept 
this, and it follows then, as night the day, that 
the combination effected in the imagination of 
the Philosopher is due to his recognition of a 
similarity between phenomena. 

Newton's leap of imagination was not 
from an apple to a moon, but from a falling 
apple to 2i falling moon, or, as he himself has 
said : *' There is a certain style " — method 
or similarity — " in the operations of divine 
wisdom, in the perception of which philo- 
sophical sagacity and genius seem chiefly to 
consist." 

May we not, then, write that the Philoso- 
pher evidences his genius in the exercise of 
his Imagination ; in the bringing together or 



34 

combining of conceptions at remove, by means 
of similarity, thus creating a new conception ? 

That the Poet is of '* Imagination all com- 
pact " is generally recognized; but that the 
identity of his intellectual process with that of 
the Philosopher may be beyond question, let 
us turn to the definition developed in the 
previous article : Poetry is the expressing of 
thought by means of figure, by the substitution 
of the concrete for the abstract, or by the bring- 
ing together or combining of conceptions at 
remove, because of a similarity between them, 
thus creating a new conception ; or both Poet 
and Philosopher evidence their genius in the 
combining of conceptions at remove by means 
of similarity." 

In what, then, do they differ? eventually, it 
may be, in this : from one we derive pleasure, 
and from the other profit ; but fundamentally, 
in the fact, that while the Philosopher seeks 
after the truth lest haply he might find it, the 
Poet's only endeavor is to make that truth 
which he apprehends present to the minds of 
others. 

'Tis true the former wishing to convey his 



35 

subtilties to others is ofttimes compelled to 
express them in concrete terms, thus poaching 
upon the fair preserve of the Poet ; but in 
general, anxious that he shall convey the truth 
and nothing but the truth, the Philosopher , 
avoids this trespass. Confining himself to the 
abstract, scientific, or prose method of express- 
ing thought, he writes as we have seen : " Life 
is the continuous adjustment of internal rela- 
tions to external relations." 
While the Poet writes : 

" Life like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity." 

But while thus differing in purpose, and 
in the mode of expressing thought, yet, since 
both evidence their genius by the same intel- 
lectual operation, it follows, that any test of 
the greatness of one is equally applicable to 
the other. If it be true, as developed in a pre- 
vious article, that in poetic creation, the great- 
est is that in which we have maximum remove 
together with maximum similarity, then must 
this be likewise true of philosophic insight, 
sagacity or genius. 



36 

But though we establish the same test 
for both, yet will some find it hard to decide 
which they would rather have written, the 
Sonnets of Shakespeare or the Principia of 
Newton. For if it be granted, as Mr. Spencer 
has maintained, that intellectual development 
is measured by the degree of re-presentation, 
the abstraction, the subtilty of the thoughts 
entertained, then might it be urged, that though 
the Philosopher has done marvellous things 
amid the subtilties of matter and force, with 
their resultant — motion, — he has hardly as yet 
dared the greater subtilties of motive and char- 
acter, with their resultant — action, — the " mis- 
sing science " of a recent writer. In the mean- 
time, the never-ceasing prelude of all science, 
— Art — has for generations past, in the person 
of the Dramatic Poet, been dealing with these 
greater subtilties. 

But in questions touching us so nearly, 
it is difficult to preserve that mental equipoise 
or elevation, that will enable us to see 
both sides of a truth with equal clearness. 
Hence, fearing dogmatism more than error, 
let us for the present content ourselves with 



37 

the assumption, that so far as intellect is con- 
cerned, he who wrote the Sonnets might have 
written the Principia, and he who wrote the 
Principia might have written the Sonnets. 

The reservation — so far as intellect is con- 
cerned — is, however, a recognition of this 
important fact, that while the Philosopher and 
Poet evidence their genius by the same intel- 
lectual operation, yet their difference in purpose 
results in a difference in the general nervous 
condition under which their intellects operate. 
One is without all shows and forms of emotion, 
while the other does his best work under the 
stimulus of emotion or other nervous excite- 
ment. 

It is related of the actor, McCready, that 
before entering upon a scene in which he had 
to portray intense passion, he raced around 
behind the flies so that by the energy of his 
motion, he might stimulate himself up to the 
portrayal of such passion. Now it seems not 
improbable, that the Poet ofttimes adopts a 
similar method ; not necessarily physical ac- 
tion, but in some way like actor and orator 
he must, to use a homely phrase, warm up to 



38 

his subject, in order to write his more impas- 
sioned lines. 

On the other hand, the imagination of the 
Philosopher, cribbed, cabined and confined as 
it is by his Induction, by the necessity to 
check his inferences, lacks this stimulus ; but 
having it, who shall say by what lengths such 
running leaps of his imagination would dis- 
tance its present standing jumps. 

In this warming up to his subject, this 
stimulating of the Poet's mind in order to write 
his more impassioned lines, we have the soul 
of truth in the absurd notion that, in order 
to write great Poetry, we need only to feel 
deeply. Absurd, because great Poetry neces- 
sitates not only deep feeling to stimulate the 
mind, but far more than this, that the intellect 
so stimulated should be great. 

So confused are the prevailing ideas in 
this regard, that many have come to think of 
the Poet, as an " inspired idiot," waiting for the 
visitation of some wandering muse. It is doubt- 
less true that the Poet's mind maybe stimulated 
to such a degree as to be unconscious of the 
effort put forth in its creation ; nevertheless, 



39 

these creations are, as we have seen, the pro- 
duct of the same intellectual action as that in 
which the Philosopher evidences his genius. 

It were hardly well to close this article 
without noticing statemei ts that have of late 
appeared with increased frequency ; namely, 
that the decrease of picture-words, or the in- 
crease of abstract terms in language, is evi- 
dence that Poetry has fallen in '' the sere and 
yellow leaf," or that the present unparalleled 
strides of science are for Poetry " the prelude 
to the omen coming on." 

Those who have followed the argument 
thus far will realize how far this is from the truth ; 
for not only is it true that the higher the Poetry 
the more subtile the abstractions dealt with, but 
the more abstract are the terms employed, or 
with the growing abstraction in language, 
Poetry does of necessity keep pace. Take the 
following lines from Shakespeare's " Lucrece : " 

" Her lily hand, her rosy cheek lies under, 
Cozening th.& pillow of a lawful kiss." 

It is manifest that the first line, with its picture 
words, lily hand, rosy cheek, is, in poetic merit, 



40 

infinitely inferior to the second line, where pil- 
low begs cheek, his mistress, for a lover's fee, 
while hand, pale, cozening rogue, yea, ermine 
clad, does bar the owner of his rights. 

So, too, it goes for the saying, that the 
thought or conception expressed is more sub- 
tile, and the term " cozening," on which the 
great beauty of the second line depends, is 
more abstract than any term in the first line ; 
or, in a general way, the higher the Poetry 
the more subtile is the thought, and the more 
abstract the terms employed. Again, turn to 
Wordsworth's sonnet on "Mutability," in 
which one can almost fancy an adumbration of 
the farthest reaches of the modern teaching of 
evolution. 

" From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
And sinks from high to low along a scale 
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail, 
A musical but melancholy chime, 
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime 
Nor avarice nor over-anxious care." 

When has the melancholy music of the 
eternal cycles of evolution and dissolution been 



41 

more bravely chanted ? Yea, though chaos is 
come again, 

" Truth fails not ; though her outward forms that bear 
The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
Its crown of weeds, biit could not even sustain 
So7ne casual shout that broke the silent air, 
Or the unimaginable touch of time." 

How has the abstract of yesterday become the 
concrete of to-day ; yea, though science stride 
never so far. Poetry can but rejoice in its advance 
since every discovery of the former must needs 
become a coigne of vantage, from which the lat- 
ter will make yet higher flights. " Put a girdle 
round the world in forty minutes " you may, 
but the Poet's Ariel sprite will answer make : 

" I drink the air before me 
And return." 

Yea, though speculation take to itself the 
wings of the mornmg and fly to the uttermost 
parts of space, yet must it declare of Poetry — 
Thou wert there also. 



Repose, 



WERE other argument necessary to prove 
that the character of the scene, or 
conception which the Poet seeks to 
make present to our minds, canilot be rehed 
upon as a measure of his genius, it might be 
drawn from the preceding article. For if it is 
not in his observation of facts, but in his recog- 
nition of the subtile relations between them, in 
his combination of them, that the Philosopher 
evidences his genius, how much more must it 
be true, that the Poet's genius is evidenced, 
not by the character of the scene, conception, 
or thought represented, but by his combining 
of these in ways not given in experience, thus 
creating new conceptions. 

Perhaps the mind could better content 



44 



itself with this if it could understand how it is 
that men, some of them critics of unquestioned 
ability, have been betrayed into the belief, that 
the measure of the Poet's genius is found in the 
character of the thought. In the first place, 
familiar as we now are with Poetry in its more 
evolved forms, we are apt to regard it merely 
as a source of pleasure, apt to lose sight of its 
utilitarian origin in the desire to express 
thought, and so are prone to estimate the 
poetic merit of any lines, in terms of the pleas- 
ure afforded, without regard as to how much 
of this is due to the thought, and how much to 
the figure. 

Again, and this is a fact calculated to 
deceive the very elect themselves, the highest 
Poetry is ever the most thoughtful, or is Im- 
aginative. We have seen in the first article, 
that, despite this, the thought cannot be relied 
upon as a measure of poetic excellence, yet 
does the question remain, How are these facts 
to be reconciled? 

Recalling now the fact, that profound 
emotion or thought may act as a stimulus 
upon the mind of the Poet, much as the actors' 



45 

preliminary run behind the scene, and we can 
readily understand why profound thought may 
be, and ofttimes is, associated with the highest 
Poetry. Not only so, but if the conception to 
be represented be a subtile one, the possible 
remove between it and its concrete is greater, 
and hence, greater figure or Poetry is made 
possible. Nevertheless, as we have seen, the 
thought cannot be relied upon as a measure 
of the poet's genius. 

What shall we say then, — that the Poet 
should ignore all pleasure due to the beauty, 
pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene or concep- 
tion represented ; that it is a matter of indiffer- 
ence whether these be pleasant or otherwise ? 
Not at all ! When Macbeth says : 

" Here lay Duncan, 
His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood, 
And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature 
For ruin's wasteful entrance ; there the murtherers, 
Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers 
Unmatinerly breecfi d with gore.'' 

He doubtless gives offense to some, because 
of the inelegance of the word "breeched," for 



46 

much profound criticism has been called in to 
exorcise this spirit of evil. " It is breached," 
says one, " retched or rusted," says another ; 
and, all the while, a most notable creation 
stares them in the face, for as a man's leg was 
covered for part of its length with knee- 
breeches, so the daggers were covered or 
breeched with gore, and unmannerly so, be- 
cause it was the upper part of the dagger from 
knee to waist that was uncovered or exposed. 
Now for the moral of this tale: — while the 
elegance or inelegance, the pleasantness or 
unpleasantness, of the conception ** breeched," 
is in no sense a measure of the Poet's genius, 
yet by so much as it offends, it must diminish 
the total pleasure to be derived from the lines. 
And as Poetry has now the twofold mission 
to teach and to give pleasure, the Poet in gen- 
eral avoids such offenses, and avails himself of 
the beauty, pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene 
or conception represented, as additional sources 
of pleasure. Nevertheless, he needs to have a 
care, in so doing, that the place of his own great 
art is not usurped by things of less repute. Not 
only so, but, as we hope to show, in the highest 



47 

reaches of that art he is prone to ignore the 
pleasure from these latter sources. 

To that end note, that it has been urged, and 
as a fault in him, that Shakespeare avoids the 
grand, the sublime in nature. It is even said 
that, when he does attempt these things, he is 
not successful in his treatment of them, offer- 
ing as an instance his description of the cliffs 
of Dover, lines which Johnson maintains are 
not as fine as certain others, which he quotes 
from Congreve. 

Let us possess our souls in patience, how- 
ever, for, much as we may dislike to own it, 
Johnson is undoubtedly nearer the truth, in 
his estimate of this particular example, than 
the critic who indulged in the bit of extrava- 
gance, " he who can read this description with- 
out becoming dizzy, has either a very steady 
head or a very hard one." Nevertheless, the 
general conclusion, that Shakespeare is un- 
equal to the grand, the sublime, etc., is not only 
without sufficient warrant, but is a positive 
misapprehension of the facts, resulting, as we 
think, from the very transcendency of his skill 
in the handling of these things. 



48 

Let us, however, here take note of 
another opinion in regard to Shakespeare's 
Poetry, which has obtained even more largely 
than the above, namely, that there is in it a 
marvellous simplicity, a restfulness, or, better 
still, a repose seldom found elsewhere. So 
characteristic is this of his work, that when 
found in the lines of others, men speak of 
them as Shakespearean, as when Milton says : 

" Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie," 

or Shelley tells of clouds that wander in thick 
flocks along the mountains. 

" Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind." 

Again, when Wordsworth, in one of his most 
exquisite lines, speaks of a spray of autumn 
leaves as 

" October's workmanship to rival May," 

or Keats, in his last sonnet sees, 

" The moving waters at their priest-like task 
Of pure ablutions, around earth's human shores." 

That there is in all of these somewhat of 
that repose which men regard as characteristic 



49 

of Shakespeare's Poetry will doubtless be 
granted; but, to what is this repose due? 
Possibly it will help us in this inquiry, if, in- 
stead of the above lines, in which different 
subjects are treated, we consider others in 
which the theme remains the same, while the 
degree of repose varies. This is true of the 
following, in which Shelley, Milton and Shake- 
speare severally celebrate the beauties of a 
moonlit night : 

" How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh, 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon 

vault 
Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 

rolls, 
Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
To curtain her sleeping world." 

Queen Mab, IV. 

" Now came still evening on, and twilight grey 
Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nest 
Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. 
She all night long her amorous descant sung. 



50 

Silence was pleased ; now glowed the firmament 
With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest till the moon 
Rising in clouded majesty at length. 
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." 

Paradise Lost, Book IV. 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. 
Here will we sit and let the sound of music 
Creep in our ears. Soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harniony. 
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest 
But in its motion like an angel sings. 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim." 

Merchant of Venice. 

That of these the first shall be last, and 
the last shall be first, all criticism will agree; 
Mr. Hallam going so far as to say of the last, 
that it is perhaps the most sublime passage 
in Shakespeare. However that may be, the 
question of immediate interest for us is : What 
difference is there in the structure of the above 
corresponding to the acknowledged difference 
in Repose and poetic merit ? 



51 

Did we but compare the treatment of the 
moon in the line, 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank," 

with that in the line, 

" Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 
rolls," 

we might conclude with Emerson, and many 
others, that " good poetry is always personifi- 
cation," or, as Matthew Arnold has somewhere 
written, " in Shakespeare's poetry all things 
live," and so be led to infer that in this we have 
the ultimate fact of its characteristic repose. 

But when we compare the picturing of 
stars as patines of bright gold, and as living 
sappJiires, though the greater Repose and 
poetic merit of the former be unquestioned in 
our mind, yet are we not so clear as to the 
presence of more or greater life, certainly not 
in the form of a personification, or while the 
above test is unquestionably big with truth ; 
yet is there some more general truth by which 
this is included. 

Notice, then, that the sky, which to .Shelley 



52 

is an " ebon vault " of cathedral grand, is to 
Shakespeare but the ''floor of heaven ; " and 
the stars, that Milton sees as living sapphires, 
are in greater hands but " patines of bright 
gold " with which the young-eyed cherubim 
might play; while the moon neither rises in 
clouded majesty nor in unclouded grandeur 
rolls, but, instead, the moonlight sleeps, and 
that, too, as sweetly as a new-born babe. Is it 
not, then, manifest, that while they picture 
these things as full grown, majestic, grand, or 
imposing, depending in part upon this grandeur 
for their effect upon us, he presents them in 
the swaddling clothes of a child-like simplicity, 
depending upon his combination of conceptions 
at great remove for his effect. 

We have already learned in our corollary, 
that, other things being equal, the greater the 
remove between the conceptions, the greater 
the poetic merit ; and it needs but a glance at 
the above figures to reveal the fact that while 
between sky and ebon vault, stars and living 
sapphires, moon and queen, the remove is 
considerable, yet is the remove, and with it 
the poetic merit, infinitely increased by substi- 



53 

tuting in the above the conceptions, floor, 
patines, and sleeping child. Nor is it, as 
might at first sight appear, necessary to this 
great remove, or to the highest Poetry, that 
07ie of the two conceptions brought together 
should be of something grand, etc. We do 
not in general so regard the conception, even- 
ing; yet is it in the hands of Milton moulded 
into a shape marvellous in its Repose and 
poetic beauty : 

" Now comes still evening on, and twilight grey 
Hath in her sober livery all things clad." 

How the chaste beauty of this Puritan 
maid does turn to a glory the conventional 
garments of her sect, — the twilight's sober 
livery that all things clad. And so, while 
there is undoubtedly the breath of inspiration 
in 

" The balmiest sigh 
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear," 

yet, as compared with Milton's evening, we 
have in this but the perturbed beauty of a 
Phryne whose scant robes do more reveal 
than is well-seeming. 



54 

Again, the conception of quiet, silence, 
or stillness is hardly such as we would call 
grand or majestic, and yet it enters into com- 
binations of all degrees of remove : 

"The speaking quietude that wraps this moveless 
scene ; " 

or, better still, when the nightingale her amo- 
rous descant sung by silence accompanied ; or, 
greater than all these, when Lorenzo says : 

" Here will we sit and let the sound of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony ; " 

as the twilight's sober livery, the Puritan 
maid of Milton ; surely the grand or majestic 
hath neither part nor lot in the marvellous 
Repose and remove of this creation. Or we 
find that any intangible ** airy nothing " which 
the poet's pen would turn to shapes will make 
possible the general condition of great remove. 
So while the Poet may avail himself of 
whatever pleasure he can draw from the beauty, 
pathos, sublimity, etc., of the scene or concep- 
tion represented, yet in the highest reaches of 



55 

his art, where striving gives place to Repose, 
he seems almost to ignore the pleasure from 
this source, sacrificing it to the pleasure due 
to his own great creations. Conscious of his 
power to compel all things to his will, he toys 
with the universe, makes light of all material 
things, and leaves upon his work an impress 
of that Repose zvhich is manifested, wJien, in 
representing scenes or conceptions of great 
beauty, pathos, sublimity, etc., the Poet depends 
for his effect, not upon these things, but upon 
the remove and similarity of the conceptions 
brought together, or upon the greatness of his 
oivn art, creations or figures. 

It will hardly be necessary, now, to show 
how erroneous is the assumption that Shake- 
speare is unequal to the grand, etc. Take the 
lines from Henry IV., which Mr. Arnold, I 
think, quotes to show that in Shakespeare's 
poetry all things live : — 

" O sleep ! O gentle sleep ; 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee. 
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the sea-boy's eyes and rock his brains 
In the cradle of the rude imperious surge. 



56 

And in the visitation of the winds. 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them 
With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, 
That with the hurly death itself awakes." 

Truly may it be said, that in this Poet's 
hands all things do live and have their being ; 
breathing into them the breath of life, he 
brings together conceptions at such remove, 
that the imposing character of wind and wave 
is lost in the o'er-topping grandeur of the 
Poet's creations ;. and yet '' he whose imperial 
muse tosses creation like a bauble," he who, 
by his most potent art, the strong-based pro- 
montory made shake ; bedimmed the noon- 
tide sun ; called forth the mutinous winds, and 
twixt the green sea and azure vault set roaring 
water, is, they tell us, unequal to such things. 
Nay, rather is it true that he has realized, as 
no other Poet has, that neither mountain nor 
meadow ; height nor depth ; things past nor 
things to come, are necessary to the highest 
poetry ; but that the genius of the Poet, like 
that of the Philosopher, depends upon his 
insight into the subtile relations between the 



57 

phenomena of life and nature, and hence may- 
find full play amid the homeliest and least 
romantic things of this work-a-day world. To 
one so gifted, the barest room is crowded with 
possible suggestions of the greatest Poetry; a 
key, the chest it unlocks, a coat, or a closet 
in which it hangs, all things whatsoever, may 
by a sweet compulsion be made to serve his 
will, and become the local habitation of some 
airy nothing. 

" So am I as the rich whose blessed key 
Can bring him to his up-locked treasure, 
The which he will not every hour survey, 

For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure." 

"So is the time that keeps you as my chest, 

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, 
To make some special instant special blest 
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride." 

^2d Sonnet. 

Here we are enabled to lay hands on the 
soul of truth in the cry, that has gone up of 
late^ that American Poetry should be Ameri- 
can, for while it is undoubtedly true that men 
may write great Poetry about scenes and 



58 



incidents from the days of chivalry or an- 
tiquity, yet is it equally true of these, as of 
the beautiful, the sublime, etc., that in the 
highest reaches of his art the Poet ignores 
them all. Let us close with the following 
lines from Emerson, whom we cannot quote 
too often: 

" 'Tis easy to repaint the mythology of 
the Greeks, or of the Catholic Church, the 
feudal castle, the crusade, the martyrdom of 
Mediaeval Europe ; but to point out where 
the same creative force is now working in our 
own houses and public assemblies to convert 
the vivid energies acting at this hour in New 
York and Chicago and San Francisco, into 
universal symbols, requires a subtile and com- 
manding thought." 



Healthfulness. 

DOES it seem a work of supererogation to 
seek for a definition of healthfulness ? 
Note, then, what Mr. Matthew Arnold 
has written : " As compared with Leopardi, 
Wordsworth, though at many points less lucid, 
though far less a master of style, far less an 
artist, gains so much by his criticism of life 
being, in certain matters of profound impor- 
tance, healthful and tnu\ whereas Leopardi's 
pessimism is not that the value of Wordsworth's 
poetry, on the whole, stands higher for us than 
that of Leopardi." 

Note, too, that to this Mr. Alfred Austin, 
a critic of no mean ability, takes exception, 
declaring that " there is no consensus either 
among poets or their readers as to what is 



6o 



true and healthful criticism of life." Grant 
this, and it is manifest that a definition of 
healthfulness, is impossible, since all definition 
must find its ultimate basis in the substantial 
agreement of men. That there are differences 
of opinion none will question, but if, as Mr. 
Austin has written, criticism of life is passing 
judgment upon life, or, better still, is philoso- 
phy of life, does it not appear a strange state- 
ment that no consensus should exist in regard 
to the healthfulness of this philosophy of life ? 
Take his own definition that " Poetry is a 
transfiguration of life," and is it not manifest 
that the transfiguration will be more or less 
modified by the Poet's estimate, criticism, or 
philosophy of life ; will be healthful or other- 
wise, according as his views of life are health- 
ful or the reverse ? This, mind you, is far from 
saying that the healthfulness of the philosophy 
contained in any lines is the measure of their 
poetic merit, our position on this being already 
clearly defined ; but that there is some sub- 
stantial agreement as to what is a true and 
healthful criticism or philosophy of life there 
can be no question. 



6i 



Nay, more ; for though men may be at odds 
as to the comparative healthfulness of Byron, 
Shelley and Wordsworth ; yet are they just as 
certainly agreed that in this regard Shakespeare 
stands head and shoulders over all. 

What then is the basis of this agreement? 
What sins of omission or commission are 
chargeable to Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth, 
of which Shakespeare is innocent ? 

Answer might be made, that many hold 
Byron to be unheal thful because pessimistic, im- 
moral, sensational, unrefined, etc. The ills of life, 
and the failure of established institutions, mar- 
riage, religion, etc., are shown, not as they are, 
but in exaggerated dimensions, while the good 
of these things is belittled. Again, courage, ad- 
dress, etc., are shown, not merely as admirable in 
their way, but are blazoned forth in such strong 
light as to blur your impression of the less sensa- 
tional virtues, faithfulness to marriage vows, 
content, etc. Violence is done our instinctive 
refinement, not by the mention of things usually 
considered unmentionable, but by the placing 
of them in abnormal and unseemly juxtaposi- 
tion with the fairest, sweetest things in life. 



62 



So, too, in regard to Shelley's Poetry, 
while it is seldom or never unrefined, yet, like 
Byron, it at times belittles or subverts the best in 
life, or is pessimistic, immoral, sensational, etc. 

Such a list of offenses, however, is hardly 
satisfactory as criterion of healthfulness, im- 
plying, as it does, a certain flagrance, while 
as a matter of fact a Poet may be innocent on 
each and all of the above counts, and yet, to 
the minds of many, fail somewhat of perfect 
healthfulness. In dealing with the relations 
between the sexes he may tend to ignore or 
to expurgate all passion, that which God hath 
joined together, passion and affection, he would 
put asunder in beggarly divorcement. View- 
ing life like Wordsworth from his secluded 
retreat in the lake country, he may lack sym- 
pathy with its foibles and temptations ; for, 
as Mr. Arnold has written, without in anyway 
contradicting his previous statement: 

"Wordsworth averts his ken 
From half of human fate." 

That which Byron and Shelley unduly 
exaggerate, he as unduly belittles, showing 



63 

that on the length of the spoon which they 
have reflected from its width ; or though he 
offend no law of the decalogue, yet, like them, 
he represents partial or distorted views of life. 
Here, then, we have the basis of a criterion 
of healthfulness, which, though not startling 
in its novelty, has yet some present interest 
for us, since it is of such generality as to in- 
clude all of the above specific charges. Nor 
does its value depend upon the sustaining of 
these charges against the above-mentioned 
Poets ; for, in any event, this remains true, that 
any Poetry that does distort life is unhealthful. 

'Tis true, an exaggeration of a particular 
phase of life seems sometimes necessary to 
the well-being of the mind diseased, much as 
poisons do medicine the body ; yet would we 
not speak of one or the other as being in any 
ordinary sense of the term healthful. 

But let us now bring the above to the test of 
that substantial agreement, which we found to 
exist, namely : That Shakespeare is more health- 
ful than either of the above Poets. If in the above 
we have the true basis for our definition, then 
must it follow, that in his Poetry we shall find 



64 



less belittling of one interest and exaggeration 
of another, less distortion, than in theirs. 

Remembering, as Wordsworth has said, 
that the sonnet is the key with which Shake- 
speare unlocked his heart, let us turn to these, 
and we shall find that though, like Byron, a 
sometime companion of harlots, yet does he 
never attempt to o'er-green vice with the forms 
and shows of virtue. Tempted in all points like 
as we are, yet does he never part the cable of 
his virtuous instincts. 

" Alas ! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 
And made myself a motley to the view, 
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most 

dear, 
Made old offeiices of affections new ! 
Most true it is, that I have looked on Truth 
Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. 
These blenches gave my heart another youth, 
And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 
Now all is done save what shall have no end. 
Mine appetite, I never more will grind 
On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
O God in love, to whom I am confined ! 
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best. 
Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast." 

Sonnet no. 



65 

Even in the hour of sensual gratification, 
the tinsel of vice is to him tinsel still. 

" When my love swears she's made of truth, 
I do beheve her, though I know she hes," 

Familiar with the brave and courtly, he 
neither belittles them nor shows them in such 
high and sensational light as to blind you 
to the excellence of the humbler parts of the 
picture. Again, though taking cognizance of 
things more questionable than those with 
which Byron has offended, yet is he seldom 
unhealthful in this regard ; for such things are 
rarely forced into violent juxtaposition with 
the most delicate flavors of life, but are shown 
in their true relation to all else. It is Stephano 
and Trunculo that are betrayed into the mishap 
of the pool, not Ferdinand and Miranda. Sel- 
dom moralizing, he yet finds a soul of truth in 
the most absurd superstitions. 

Marcelhis : 

" It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated. 
The bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 



66 



And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad. 
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes, nor witch has power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time. 

Horatio : 

So have I heard, and do in part believe it. 

Hamlet, Act I., Scene i. 

Protestant or Catholic, who shall say? 
for Puritan and priest are painted with like 
impartial hand. Pessimistic? We trow not. 
Nay, rather is it in this that his healthfulness 
is most marked. 

Mr. Ruskin, I think it is, enters complaint 
that Shakespeare never had any great object 
in life ; doubtless meaning some such Utopian 
scheme as that upon which he himself has so 
generously expended his inheritance. Now, 
while this may be true as to the fact, yet is the 
implied exception, that therein Shakespeare 
lacks somewhat of perfect healthfulness, not 
well taken. 

For, though differing most widely, yet 
have Byron's scheme of Greek independence 
and Ruskin's ideal community this in common : 



^7 

both exaggerate the failures of estabhshed 
institutions, and belittle their good; both 
fall short of that healthful philosophy of life 
which realizes that all things work together 
for good; that the social institutions of any 
time are, on the whole, the best for the needs 
of the time. Exaggerating our own impor- 
tance in the eternal economy, we fancy that 
with imperfect men we can construct an ideal 
or perfect social structure, and so engage in 
schemes which, like those of Mr. Ruskin, 
though laudable in their promptings, are yet 
the outcome of a limited knowledge of life. In 
the provincialism of our wealth or culture, we 
overestimate the value of these as factors in the 
problem of life's happiness. Forgetting that 
the best things in life — virtue, content, etc. — 
are possible to the least of fortune's favorites, 
we cry out, *' Is not culture more than virtue, 
and wealth more than content?" But mark 
the difference: 

" Sir, I am a true laborer. I earn that I 
eat, get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy 
no man's happiness ; glad of other men's good, 
content with my harm ; and the greatest of my 



68 



pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs 
suck." So saith Corin in "As You Like It." 

Again, he who was famihar with court and 
courtesans, the most wise fool. Touchstone, 
saith of his Audrey: "A poor humor of mine, 
sir, to take that that no man will." Not that 
he blinds himself to the value of culture ; for, 
"Truly I would the gods had made thee 
poetic." Still, "A poor humor of mine, sir; 
an ill-favored thing, but mine own!' Is not 
the healthfulness of this in keeping with the 
fact that Shakespeare, having gained a com- 
petence, and returning to his native town, 
indulges in no Utopian scheme for the benefit 
of its poor, gives rise to no excrescence upon 
the body politic, but, instead, he appears on 
record as member of a committee to secure 
from Parliament a subsidy for the town of 
Stratford, then fallen in decay ? 

Again : he who had written in the assur- 
ance of his genius, — 

" So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives hfe to thee ; " 

he who had been flattered by, and had charmed. 



69 

a circle in which the genius of a Jonson stood 
not alone, returns to his native town, and takes 
upon himself the least regarded public duties 
as road overseer. Aye, he who had been one 
with the simple folk of this world in their 
struggle for existence, knew too well their 
needs and possibilities to indulge in any maud- 
lin sentiment in their behalf, offering them 
instead a profound respect. 

On the other hand, Byron and Shelley, 
and to a less degree Ruskin, all born to an 
inheritance, all bemoan the ills of this work- 
a-day world or all lack somewhat of perfect 
healthfulness. Truly has it been written how 
hardly shall a rich man enter into that king- 
dom in which the unregarded of this world 
are looked upon, not as objects of pity, but of 
respect. For this thing cometh not but by 
the fasting and prayer of the struggle for exis- 
tence. 

Marvelous as was Shakespeare's insight 
into the motives of action, wondrous as was his 
poetic genius, yet was he greater than all these 
in this universality of his sympathy. Having 
proved all things, he had regard to all things, 



70 



and would neither add to nor subtract one jot 
or tittle from the greatest or least respected 
things of life. 

But to bring this to a conclusion, while 
the Poet may avail himself of this healthful- 
ness, as he does of the beauty, pathos, sub- 
limity, etc., of the scene or conception repre- 
sented, or as an additional source of pleasure, 
still may his lines be never so unhealthy and 
yet evidence great poetic genius. 

Holding this in regard may we not write : 
Healthfulness in Poetry, as in all literature 
and all art, is the representing of life without 
distortion. 




Humor. 

THAT Poetry and Humor have much in 
common, may not at first sight appear, 
so different are they in their effect 
upon us. And yet when we find critics of 
undoubted ability declaring of the same lines : 
one, that they are poetic ; and the other, that 
they are humorous, we begin to doubt whether 
the difference is as clearly marked as we had 
fancied. And yet that there is an essential 
and abiding difference, and hence, that any 
definition either of Poetry or of Humor, to 
be complete must take cognizance of this dif- 
ference, cannot be gainsaid, while the question. 
Does the definition of Poetry developed in a 
previous article satisfy this condition ? becomes 
a most pertinent one. 



72 



We can best answer this question by first 
determining the ultimate and essential con- 
ditions of Humor, and in so doing will, as 
heretofore, avail ourselves of all previous 
efforts in this direction. We saw that all 
attempts to define Poetry could for practi- 
cal purposes, be included under one or the 
other of two definitions. So too we find that 
many and various as have been the attempts to 
determine the cause of humorous amusement, 
they all array themselves under one or the 
other of the following : 

Mr. Bain writes: "The occasion of the lu- 
dicrous is the degradation of some person or 
interest possessing dignity in circumstances 
that excite no other strong emotion." 

On the other hand Dr. Johnson says : 

" Wit is a ' discordia concors,' a combina- 
tion of dissimilar images." 

Though different terms are here employed, 
— wit and the ludicrous, — yet may these defi- 
nitions be accepted as typical of all attempts to 
define that generic Humor which includes any 
and all sources of humorous amusement. Not 
only so, but as in Poetry, so here, we hope to 



73 

show, that, despite their seeming contradiction, 
these are but the complements of each other, 
so that any satisfactory definition must take 
note of the truth contained in each of them. 

That degradation is present in many 
phases of generic Humor may not be denied, 
and yet it might be urged against the first of the 
above definitions, that degradation may, and oft- 
times does, give rise to pity or other strong 
emotions. To meet this objection, Mr. Bain 
adds the quahfying clause that the degradation 
shall be " in circumstances that excite no other 
strong emotion ; " yet is this far from satisfac- 
tory, for since the amusement and the other 
strong emotion are both due to degradation, 
there must needs be some difference in the 
character of the degradation, corresponding to 
this difference in effect, or it is in some pecu- 
liar phase of degradation that we must look 
for the basis of a definition of generic Humor. 

When a dignified divine follows, in fruit- 
less chase, his erring hat, which, in gamesome 
mood, seems to await his near approach, only 
to be again caught up on the wings of frolic, 
we are amused, and as certainly have a person 



74 



in some sense degraded. But notice this, that 
while in his pursuit of not very noble game, 
the divine is like a boy at an age when he is 
the contradiction of all dignity ; yet the divine 
does not forfeit our respect, or it is not an 
absolute degradation. 

Cervantes represents his redoubtable 
knight as awaiting the approach of the mer- 
chants of Toledo: — 

" When they were come so near as to be 
seen and heard, Don Quixote raised his voice 
and with an arrogant air cried out : ' Let the 
whole world stand, if the whole world does not 
confess that there is not in the whole world a 
damsel more beautiful, etc., etc' " So imbued 
is his mind with this knight errantry that his 
faith in it naught can shake. She whom he 
has elevated to the sublime place in his mind, 
of Dulcinea del Toboso, was in reality an 
unseemly, ignorant, country wench, with 
naught of the ideal about her, save an almost 
forgotten affair between them ; and yet out of 
this slight element of actuality all her ideal 
charms are created, holding existence in his 
mind beyond a peradventure, " And it's no 



75 

great matter if it is another hand, for by what 
I can remember Dulcinea can neither write 
nor read." And yet is it not true that, despite 
his high-gravel bhndness in this regard, we 
continue to think of the Don as sensible upon 
other subjects. 

Even Sir Andrew Aguecheek, whom, at 
best, we do not regard as over-wise, becomes 
most amusing when he appears as more of a 
fool than he is in reality. When Maria invites 
Sir Toby and him to witness the success of 
her trick upon the high and lofty Malvolio, 
the former indicates his willingness to accom- 
pany her and his appreciation of the trick by 
saying : " To the gates of Tartar, thou most 
excellent devil of wit ! " At this Sir Andrew, 
who, mind you, is utterly incapable of even the 
semblance of a joke, says : " I'll make one 
too." What excellent foolery ! 

He himself well knows the impossibility 
of this, and yet, through his desire to have or 
retain Sir Toby's favor, which Maria had 
recently monopolized, he is betrayed into this 
foolishness, thus seeming more of a fool 
than he is in reality. In neither of these in- 



1^ 



stances is the degradation absolute. Assume, 
for the sake of argument, that the divine, Don 
Quixote and Sir Andrew are without *' miti- 
gation or remorse " the fools they seem, and 
what results? Can you laugh at an idiot? 
instead, are you not compelled to pity him ? 
Or, if the degradation becomes absolute, the 
amusement ceases, " giving place to other 
strong emotions." 

But why, or how, does this change in the 
character of the degradation result in such 
change in its effect upon us ? For an answer 
to this turn to the divine, and is it not mani- 
fest, that in his incomplete degradation he 
makes present to the mind, at one and the 
same time, two pictures or conceptions of 
himself, one as dignified and the other as de- 
graded, or that this incompleteness of his degra- 
dation results in what Johnson has called a 
combination of dissimilar images. Make the 
degradation absolute, and you destroy one of 
these images, that of the divine as dignified, 
and a " combination," a " discordia concors," 
is rendered impossible, since there is now but 
one image or conception present in the mind. 



71 

The amusement ceasing not as Mr. Bain would 
have us infer, because there is present in the 
mind the conditions both of amusement and of 
other strong emotions, only the latter is the 
more powerful of the two, but because the 
conditions of amusement have disappeared, 
giving place to conditions of other strong 
emotions, as pity, or the degradation is now 
such as cannot give rise to a discordia 
concors, but must awaken other strong emo- 
tions. 

Turning to Puns, Parodies and Witticisms 
in general, little difficulty is experienced in 
recognizing in them the presence of" discordia 
concors," while, on the other hand, the degra- 
dation is not always so obvious as in the pre- 
vious examples, Mr. Herbert Spencer going 
so far as to say that Puns might be produced 
in which no degradation can be found. For 
the present, however, let us note that between 
Don Quixote's challenge and a Pun there is a 
difference, which men have sought to indicate 
by calling one Humor (specific), and the other 
Wit. And while the attempts to define these 
terms have not met with any signal success, 



78 

yet is the difference, though somewhat vaguely 
recognized, a real and substantial one. 

If, as Coleridge has suggested, there is in 
some way the same relation between these as 
between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, we 
may obtain some help in our present inquiry, 
from a previous article. For while in all 
Poetry, we have both the thought and the fig- 
ure, in which the thought finds utterance, yet 
in Imaginative Poetry the thought, the utility, 
and in Fanciful Poetry the figure or combina- 
tion, is the more important factor ; or, here as 
elsewhere, "what nature creates for use, she 
afterward turns to beauty." 

So too, it seems probable, that in all 
Humor (generic) we have both the degrada- 
tion or utility, and the combination by which 
this is effected, yet in Humor (specific) as in 
Imaginative Poetry, the degradation or utility 
is of greater moment than in Wit ; while 
in the latter, as in Fanciful Poetry, the com- 
bination has existence more because of its own 
delightfulness, than because it subserves the 
purpose of any degradation. 

This, too, is coherent with the claim, that 



79 

the earliest manifestations of Humor (generic) 
are in the form of practical jokes, Samson 
loosing the foxes in the standing corn of the 
Philistines, or slaying their thousands with 
the jaw-bone of an ass, displaying a grim 
sort of Humor in the insignificance of the 
weapons employed. Or, in this actual in- 
jury of enemies, in such a manner as made 
them appear less than they were in reality, we 
have it may be, the utility from which has 
been evolved all forms of generic Humor. And 
as in all Poetry, even the most Fanciful, there 
is still some warp of thought; so it seems 
probable, that in all Humor (generic), in the 
quickest and most brilliant witticism, there is 
still some flavor of degradation. 

But while it has appeared in what Poetry 
and Humor (generic) are alike, the combining 
or bringing together of conceptions at remove, 
etc., it has not as yet been shown in what they 
differ. 

Notice, then, that examples may be pro- 
duced, one poetic and the other humorous, in 
which the conceptions brought together are 
practically the same. For instance, we may 



8o 



personify a bell, and speak of it as telling the 
sad news, while Hood writes: 

" The parson told the sexton, 
And the sexton tolled the bell." 

That in both of these the conceptions 
brought together are a bell tolling and a per- 
son telling something is manifest ; hence the 
difference cannot be in the character of the 
conceptions brought together, nor yet in the 
remove between them. 

In our extremity we turn to the bond 
between these conceptions, to inquire if there 
be not some difference there. With what 
result ? . This, that while in the first example 
the conceptions are merely similar in one or 
more elements, in the second they are brought 
together because the words told and tolled 
are in sound the same. 

So in Witticisms in general, as when 
Porson, hearing some one remark, of certain 
modern poets, that they would be remembered 
long after Homer and Virgil were forgotten, 
replied, "And not till then." 

The point of this manifestly depends 



8i 



upon the fact that he adopts entire the language 
of the first speaker, and so seeming at first to 
convey the same idea, he yet by a sHght addi- 
tion conveys the directly opposite idea. Or, 
conceptions at remove are brought together, 
because the language employed, is in a large 
measure the same. 

In Parodies it is the same metrical struc- 
ture, while in the divine's unseemly caper, 
Don Quixote's challenge, or Sir Andrew's 
aside, the sajne person is conceived as more or 
less wise and as foolish ; or, if a like relation 
existed between all the elements of the con- 
ceptions brought together, we might say of 
them, not merely as in Poetry, that they are 
similar, but that they are identical or coincide 
throughout. Hence the definition — in Humor 
[generic) we have that degradation which re- 
sults in a '' discordia concors^' in a combining 
or bringing together conceptions at remove by 
means of coincidence, thus creating a nezu con- 
ception, which, as we shall see hereafter, is of no 
long continuance. 

Turning again to the divine's pursuit of 
not very noble game, we see that the more 



82 



dignified he is in general, and the more he is 
Hke a boy, in this one instance of the lapse 
of his dignity, the more we are amused ; or, as 
the greatest Poetry is the result of maximum 
remove with the maximum similarity, so the 
greatest Hiunor {generic) is the result of maxi- 
muin remove and maxiiniim coincidence. 

Again, in applymg this, we find, that just 
as the greatest Poetry is in general Imagina- 
tive, as distinguished from the P^anciful, so the 
greatest Humor (generic) is in general to be 
found in specific Humor, as distinguished from 
Wit, in a Don Quixote, or a ''Twelfth Night," 
and not in the reply of a Porson, or the couplet 
of Hood. 

It has not yet appeared, however, that the 
above distinction between similarity and coin- 
cidence will account for the well-known differ- 
ence between Poetry and Humor (generic) in 
their effect upon us. 

For a better understanding of this, let us 
turn to an article of Mr. Spencer's, on " The 
Physiology of Laughter." Ignoring some of 
the more refined distinctions, one can quote 
him in a general way, as saying: That any 



disturbance of the nervous system, or force 
set in motion, must expend itself either in 
mental or muscular activities, or in both of these. 
If, from any cause, the discharge through one 
of these channels as mental activities is inter- 
rupted, this force must find vent in some way, 
and, hence, more must be taken up in muscu- 
lar action ; and if the force is without special 
direction, it will naturally set in motion those 
muscles most readily moved, those most fre- 
quently in use, or the muscles of the throat 
and chest, used in talking, respiration, and 
likewise in laughter. When the acrobat has 
made an astonishing leap over a number of 
horses, and the clown comes running after with 
great energy, as though he would far surpass 
the acrobat, and then stops suddenly at the 
first horse, and pretends to brush off a fly, the 
audience screams. By the energy of his pre- 
liminary run, he has led them to expect a 
wonderful jump; a large amount of nervous 
force was set in motion, but his " most lame 
and impotent conclusion" interrupts the dis- 
charge of this force through mental channels, 
so compelling it to find vent in muscular 



84 



activities, and the half-convulsive action we 
call laughter ensues. 

That this is big with truth we must per- 
force grant ; yet is the statement made farther 
on, that "laughter naturally results only when 
consciousness is unawares transferred from 
great things to small, misleading in the ex- 
treme, for examples may be produced, as in- 
stance Porson's reply, in which there is no dif- 
ference in greatness between the conceptions 
with which the mind is employed. 

We have seen, however, that, in Humor 
(generic), the combination is due to coinci- 
dence ; and so the mind recognizing that the 
conceptions coincide in one or more elements, 
is prone to assume that the same relation exists 
between all their elements, or that they coincide 
throughout; but since the conceptions are in 
reality at great remove, or in their more impor- 
tant elements essentially different, we no sooner 
impose one upon the other than their non-co- 
incidence in these elements is revealed; the new 
conception resulting from the attempted combi- 
nation is hardly created, before its impossibility 
is flashed upon the mind, or its birth is its death. 



85 

Here, by the by, is Whately's fallacy ; 
Shoepenhauer's triumph of intuition over 
reflection ; or Dumont's " that of which the 
mind is forced to affirm and deny the same 
thing at the same time." But what must be 
the result of this self-destructive character of 
the new conception ? 

Manifestly this, that the mind is left with- 
out anything with which to occupy itself, not 
because the mind is " unawares transferred 
from great things to small," in any ordinary 
sense in which we employ the terms, but 
because the conception resulting from the 
combination, though extremely novel, and so 
setting in motion a large body of nervous force, 
is yet self-destructive, and hence the force set 
in motion must find vent in muscular action, 
and laughter results. 

In Poetry, on the other hand, in which 
the combination is due to similarity, you are 
never, even for a moment, betrayed into the 
notion, that the conceptions coincide through- 
out or are identical, but instead, you are at all 
times conscious that they are but similar. 

The new conception, therefore, is not self- 



86 



destructive, but remains for the mind to brood 
over, or the force set in motion, finding vent 
in mental channels, laughter does not ensue. 
This suggests a solution for a problem that 
has troubled all attempts to analyze Humor, 
namely: In what does the Humor which 
gives rise to a laugh differ from that which 
only provokes a smile ? 

We have already seen that Wit differs 
from specific Humor, in the greater domi- 
nance of the combination ; but not contented 
with this, we ofttimes impose upon it the fur- 
ther limitation, that it shall be quick, apropos, 
and so are apt to call witty all quick, apropos 
combinations, whether they are in method, 
humorous or poetic. If the former, then, as 
we have seen, it will give rise to a laugh ; but 
if the latter, it can, at the most, but provoke a 
smile ; or as the combination passes from the 
humorous to the poetic, coincidence giving 
place to similarity, the laugh gives place to 
the smile, and this to what a German called 
"a smile in the depths of his consciousness." 



Resume. 

THROUGH all the wanderings of our 
argument thus far, we have striven to 
keep before the minds of our readers 
as the fundamental proposition, that : — Poetry 
is the expressing of thought by means of figure; 
by the substitution of the concrete for the ab- 
stract ; or by the bringing together or com- 
bining of conceptions at remove, because of a 
similarity betiueen them, this creating a new 
conception. 

Let us now pass in brief review the 
arguments that led to this conclusion. In 
the first place, we found a substantial agree- 
ment among men to the effect that the 
measure of poetic merit must be found either 
in the character of the thought expressed, or 



in the character of the figures employed. In 
deciding between these, we saw that while 
thought is in some sense essential, figure 
being impossible, save ' as it expresses some 
thought, yet it is not peculiar to Poetry. 

Again, while the beauty, pathos, sub- 
limity, healthfulness, etc., of the scene, con- 
ception or thought represented is important as 
an additional source of pleasure ; nay, more, 
while the character of the thought may some- 
times be a fair measure of poetic excellence, 
the greatness of the thought reacting upon the 
mind of the poet, stimulating it to the creation 
of figures otherwise impossible, etc., yet did we 
find that the character of the thought could 
not be relied upon as a measure of poetic 
values, since examples may be produced differ- 
ing most widely in poetic merit, in which, 
nevertheless, the scene, conception or thought 
is the same in both, and hence we concluded 
that Poetry is the expressing of thought by 
means of figure. But a definition, to be satis- 
factory, must be exclusive as well as inclusive ; 
and bringing the above to this test, we found 
that it served to distinguish Poetry from Prose, 



89 

or the scientific mode of expressing thought, 
in this that while the latter tends to substitute 
the abstract for the concrete, the former sub- 
stitutes the concrete for the abstract. 

So, too, while we found the genius of 
Poet and Philosopher are evidenced in opera- 
tions that are identical — the bringing together 
of conceptions at remove by means of similarity 
— yet do they differ in the purpose for which 
this combination is effected, and in the general 
nervous condition under which their intellect 
operates; one seeking to express a truth, and 
the other to develop a further truth. 

From painting, sculpture, etc., Poetry is, 
of course, distinguished by the material in 
which it works, — language; while from Hu- 
mor (generic), in which we have a like bringing 
together of conceptions at remove, it differs in 
the character of the bond by which these 
conceptions are combined, — similarity in one, 
coincidence in the other, .etc. In thus showing 
that our definition was sufficiently exclusive, 
we have been led to define, with more or less 
precision, those things in regard to which con- 
fusion might arise. The definition of Humor 



90 

(generic) we were at some pains to formulate, 
and found that it not only reconciled differ- 
ences, but was, also, in keeping with the 
theory of Laughter developed by Mr. Herbert 
Spencer. 

Then, again, as a definition of Poetry must 
needs lack completeness if it fails to contain a 
possible explanation of the difference between 
Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry, so a defini- 
tion of Humor (generic) should contain a 
possible explanation of the difference between 
Humor (specific) and Wit. In accordance 
with this, we saw that while in all Poetry we 
have both the thought and the combination 
by which it is expressed, yet in Imaginative 
the thought, and in Fanciful the combination, 
is the more dominant factor. So, too, while 
in all Humor (generic) you have both the 
degradation and the combination, yet in 
Humor (specific) the degradation, and in Wit 
the combination, is the more conspicuous 
figure. Thereby justifying the surmise of 
Coleridge, that in some way the same relation 
exists between Humor (specific) and Wit as 
between Imaginative and Fanciful Poetry. 



91 

This suggested a solution for the problem 
that has troubled all attempts to define Humor 
(generic), namely: In what does the Humor 
which gives rise to a laugh differ from that 
which only provokes a smile ? To this, an- 
swer was made : As coincidence is changed 
to similarity, the laugh must needs give place 
to a smile, etc. 

Among the few formulated beliefs, about 
which there is a substantial agreement among 
critics is this :— That there is in the highest 
Poetry, a certain characteristic simplicity or 
repose. This, we found, was in entire keeping 
with our definition of Poetry, and so were 
led to define, this repose. We saw, also, that 
under the impulse of any deep feeling or pas- 
sion, the mind found the Scientific or Prose 
mode of expressing thought all too slow for 
the press of jostling thoughts, and so was com- 
pelled to find vent for these in figure, or as is 
frequently said, Poetry is the natural language 
of passion. Even the essentially absurd notion 
that all we have to do, to write great Poetry, 
is to feel deeply, found, in the above truth, some 
j ustification. So, too, the somewhat incoherent 



92 

cry that American Poetry should be American, 
was found to be big with truth ; while in the 
progress of science, we found not a foreboding, 
but a promise, of the future possibilities of 
Poetry; or, our definition conforms itself to this 
great test of truth — that it lives not unto itself 
alone, but that with it must stand or fall a large 
body of collateral truth. 

Some one has said we should doubt our 
conclusions about Poetry when they differ 
from the Poets; let us bring our definition to 
this further test, confident that it will not fail 
us here. 

We have already seen, as Sir Philip Sidney 
has written, that : " It is not rhyming or 
versing that maketh a poet, but it is the feign- 
ing of notable images, of virtues, vices, or 
what else, with that delightful teaching which 
must be the right describing note to know a 

poet by he coupleth the general 

notion with the particular example." 

To this Shakespeare has given more 
poetic expression in his " Midsummer Night's 
Dream." 



93 

'*The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 

heaven. 
And as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name. 
Such tricks hath strong imagination. 
That if it would but apprehend some joy. 
It comprehends some bringer of that joy." 

"Poetiy," says Shelley, "lifts theveilfrom 
the hidden beauty of the world, and makes 
familiar objects be as if they were not familiar." 
Elsewhere he writes : " It creates, but it creates 
by combination and representation." 

" Poetical abstractions are beautiful and 
new, not because the proportions of which 
they are composed had no previous existence 
in the mind of man or in nature, but because 
the whole produced by their combination, has 
some intelligible and beautiful analogy with 
the sources of emotion and thought." 

Leigh Hunt writes: "Poetry begins 
where matters of fact or of science ceases to be 
merely such, and to exhibit a further truth ;" 
again he says : " Poetry is imaginative passion," 



94 

or as Milton has written : " Poetry in compari- 
son with science is simple, sensuous and pas- 
sionate." 

Again, our own Emerson has written : 
" Poetry is the perpetual endeavor to express 
the spirit of things. Its essential mark is, that 
it betrays in every word instant activity of 
mind, shown in new uses of every fact and 
image, in preternatural quickness of percep- 
tion of relations ; all its words are poems." 

Yea, even so long ago as the Chaldean 
Zoroaster, it was written : " Poets are standing 
transporters, • whose employment consists in 
speaking to the father and to matter ; in pro- 
ducing apparent imitations of unapparent 
nature, and inscribing things unapparent to 
the apparent fabrication of the world." 

As definitions, most of these are far from 
satisfactory, sometimes vague, and ofttimes 
contradicting themselves and each other ; and 
yet finding in our definition a solvent for 
all their contradictions, we can say of one 
" That's true " and of another " That's true 
too." 

Summing up the evidence, then, we find. 



^5 



that besides the a priori and a posteriori con- 
siderations developed in the earlier pages of 
the discussion, our definition has the fur- 
ther warrant of the two great tests of truth — 
"it lives not unto itself alone," and "comes 
not to destroy, but to fulfill." 




Times Printing House, 
Philadelphia, Pa. 



